


Expect the Unexpected

by TheUniverse_Smiles



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Heavy Petting, Human AU, Idol Worship, Love at First Sight, Modern AU, Roland is an asshole, Sex, bog is a bagpiper, but what else is new
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-15 12:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverse_Smiles/pseuds/TheUniverse_Smiles
Summary: “She tripped,” he said simply,“Over what?” Ugh,“Me,” he replied, knowing at this point that there was no point in trying to beat around the bush, “I was havin’ a rest, and she came in and toppled over my legs. We were both pretty nasty to each other about it until I realized she looked like she needed help…” his words faded as Stuff’s cackling leaked into the air from where she was hiding her face in Thang’s shirt sleeve. Thang himself was chuckling spiritedly, and even Pare looked entertained, shaking his head,“So who put who on their arse, exactly?” he asked. Bog grabbed another mic cord,“I thought she was going to break my nose. Luckily all I got was a shove,”“Did she know who you were while you were lobbing pleasantries at each other? You said she was a fan,” Thang reasoned. Bog shook his head,“She had no idea. She’s never been to a show before,” he answered sheepishly. Stuff practically squealed,“That’s so romantic!” Bog blanched. Was it? “So when you came out on stage, she must have looked...?” she trailed off, waiting for Bog to fill in the blanks,“Absolutely mortified,” he offered.





	1. Chapter 1

Bog stretched his fingers, pushing the pads together and flexing until a few small, satisfying  _pops_  met his ears. He needed to keep himself loose and relaxed. Despite the years and years of performing for live crowds he had under his belt, there was still something about the shuffle of an anxious audience, the hum of anticipation beyond the curtain that set him on edge. It never effected his performance – no, he was far too disciplined for that – and once he was on stage, he was rather adept and tuning everyone out and losing himself in the music. But  _this_  moment – this brief, suspenseful instant before he and his bandmates took the stage – was something he could really do without.

 

He closed his eyes and took a slow, steady breath.  _Relax_ , he thought, willing the noise and distractions surrounding him to disappear. This was just another show, just another audience.  _Breathe_. He repeated the mantra for a short time before his respite was broken by the excited hail from the crowd, and his percussionist Pare clapping him firmly on the shoulder. He jerked slightly, but steadied himself when met with his good friend’s toothy, enthusiastic grin,

 

“Y’ready, mate?” Pare cajoled, and Bog cracked a smile and nodded. He was always ready for this. Despite his perpetual uneasiness before shows, Bog never missed and opportunity or failed to play his heart out, and he reveled in every second of it.

 

The emcee gave them a rousing introduction, and the cheering quickly escalated into and deafening cacophony of woops, hollers, and stomping feet as Bog and his bandmates emerged onto the stage. He afforded the crowd a small, almost timid smile of appreciation, eager to reach for his pipes and whistles and tune out everything except what really mattered.

 

 _Whistle first_  he reminded himself silently as he took stock of their set list for the nth time since arriving. He knew it back to front, but it always paid to be prepared. He picked up his low whistle and found immediate comfort of the feel of cool metal in his hands. His fingers brushed over the beveled holes, and he found himself, as always, anxious to begin.

 

Glancing across the stage, he gave a small nod to Pare, who had seated himself in front of his drum set, and watched as his other two companions, Stuff and Thang, readied their instruments. Stuff plucked a few perfunctory notes as she smiled, greeting the crowd like they were old friends,

 

“Good evening, everybody! We’re so thrilled to be back here after so long away, it’s always such a warm welcome!” her words were met with more applause, and Bog couldn’t help noticing how reverently Thang stared at his wife while she spoke. The two were absolutely mad for each other, and made a damn fine pair of musicians – Bog knew he was lucky to have them, “We’ve got a great show for ye tonight, I can promise ye that! A lot of newer tunes, as ye’ll see, mostly off our most recent album, which is available in the back,” Bog wrestled back a grimace at the self-promotion. It made him endlessly uncomfortable to pitch themselves that way, but it had been deemed necessary somewhere along the line, so he put up with it, “Thank ye for being here with us, we love playing for ye, and we hope ye enjoy it!” she trilled.

 

More applause.

 

_Relax. Breathe._

His fingers found their place on the whistle as the clamor faded into expectant silence. He exchanged a glance with each of his comrades as Pare softly beat out a steady tempo…and then they were off. The opening set started off with a hornpipe, something to grab the crowd’s attention and hold it; nothing too fancy, but still communicative of something else building on the horizon. Something powerful, and rhythmic, and moving; something to push people to the edge of their seats.

 

This time it was their turn to feel the suspense, the raw anticipation of hurdling toward an unknown precipice of possibility before inevitably spiraling over the edge. Bog’s fingers flew expertly over the holes of the low whistle, thrumming out a writhing, impossible melody before stopping short, allowing it to be caught and flung ever forward by Thang’s unparalleled fiddling.

 

Bog turned away from the crowd for just a moment, long enough to set his whistle back down on the small bench behind him and retrieve his pipes. And there is was – that anticipation. He could feel it as it sent a crackle through the air, the tension thick and tangible. It was exhilarating.

 

When he turned back, he could sense every pair of eyes boring into him; they waited with baited breath and pounding hearts. The tune shifted, the beat and guitar setting him up for the reel. He inflated the bag and wedged it firmly under his arm, ready to strike in. He watched Pare as the tempo pitched forward and the melody came to a head. Then, as the audience was truly enraptured with the wild, sweltering cadence of the tune, there was a single beat of charged, intoxicating silence.

 

The dam broke. Bog struck in on the very next beat, and the crowd roared as the music barreled forward, his finger blazing over his chanter. This was where Bog thrived. There was nothing,  _nothing_  else like this, he was certain. Nothing as visceral, nothing that made his blood sing and his heart burst, high-as-a-kite on adrenaline.

 

It was perfect; all he could ever want – all he needed.

 

The performance went off without a hitch, and the audience had settled a bit by the time the set break rolled around. He was sweaty and his ears were ringing, and his whole body buzzed with adrenaline and satisfaction as they laid down their instruments and announced a small reprieve,

 

“’bout time fer a drink, eh?” Thang nudged him as they left the stage, and Bog nodded enthusiastically,

 

“Aye,” The venue was small and intimate, with a built in bar and even a small kitchen. Bog was grateful for the ease with which he could traverse the crowd in places like this. People always wanted to stop and chat, congratulate you, fawn over you, even, but it made grabbing a drink and escaping out the door for some fresh air a bit easier than at large, packed auditoriums.  _Cannae even take a piss, it’s bloody ridiculous_  he’d griped to Pare once at a show in Glasgow. Now, as he slipped through the crowd and out onto the patio, drink in hand, he was glad to have a moment to himself. He quickly took a seat at  the nearest open table and took a long sip. The whiskey burned sweetly all the way down, and Bog relaxed, closing his eyes and letting his head tilt back. Small or not, this place stocked an exemplary single malt.

 

He stretched his long legs out in front of him, then yelped abruptly as something hard came into contact with his shins. Suddenly something…no, some _one_  was tripping over his extended legs, and collapsing spectacularly onto the pavement. He was up in a flash, his mind flying briefly to the liability clause in the band’s contract with the club – did it cover injuring patrons? He shook his head and reached down toward the poor girl he’d accidentally upended,

 

“Shit, I’m so sorry! Y’awright?” he asked as he felt a small hand wrap around his own. Her grasp was firm, and he pulled her up as soon as he was sure she’d found her legs. He watched her brush herself off brusquely, and was taken aback by the fire in her eyes when she finally looked up at him. Liquid amber burned into him, framed by short, wild brown hair and highlighted by bold, smokey makeup. Her nose was small and pointed, and in a moment of what he would later describe as insanity, he let his eyes wander to her lips. They were painted a dark burgandy color, and curled into an unimpressed sneer. Despite that, she was… _gorgeous_ ,

 

“I’m  _fine_ ,” she snapped, yanking her hand away and turning on her heel to stalk toward the club, effectively breaking whatever spell she had inadvertently cast on Bog. He shook his head, processing what had happened, before calling after her wearing a sneer of his own,

 

“Excuse you then, princess,” he bit, and the young woman froze mid step, bristling at his words. She turned slowly to glare daggers at him, her lower jaw jutted forward defiantly,

 

“I  _beg_  your pardon?” she growled, and her indignance poked at his temper. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at her,

 

“You should really watch your step darlin’; it’s dangerous to take falls like that with a stick shoved so far up your arse,”  _yikes_ , he though,  _that was a bit much_. It hadn’t even been her fault, but it was said, and now this woman was absolutely seething. She hadn’t gotten far, but from the distance she had gained Bog could now take in her entire frame. She was petite, and shorter than him by a head-and-a-half, but as she rounded and marched back toward him her he couldn’t help the small prickle of apprehension that lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. It occurred to him that this woman might just be able to kick his ass, given the opportunity, even clad as she was in a distractingly low-cut purple cocktail dress and impractically high heels.

 

A twinge of guilt echoed through him; here he had just tripped and slighted a woman he didn’t even know – literal insult to injury – who about three steps away from clocking him in the jaw, and all he could think about was the pleasing taper of her waist, and the way her dress flowed over her hips.  _Christ, I’m an arsehole_  he thought as she finally reached him. She jabbed a slender finger sharply into his chest,

 

“ _You_  tripped  _me_ , remember?” she said pointedly. The patio was mostly empty, but their tiff was beginning to draw a few curious stares.  _Bad for PR_ , Bog thought silently, but he’d been baited,

 

“Aye, and I apologized, if you’ll recall,” he replied sarcastically, “Even found your feet for ye, and you brushed me off like you were the Queen of bloody Sheba,” The young woman turned red, clearly aware of the truth in his accusation, but persisted,

 

“Well forgive me for being less than tickled about being knocked on my ass in public and not immediately begging forgiveness for scuffing your shoes,” she shot back,

 

“It was my shins actually, sweetheart, and a simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed,”

 

“Maybe keep your damn shins under your table where they belong and avoid tripping people all together!” Shit, he didn’t have a rebuttal for that one. She was right, this was his fault, but dammit if he didn’t feel the incessant need to have the last word. He simply gave her a sweeping, dramatic bow,

 

“By your leave,  _princess_ ,” he said sardonically – a miscalculation on his part. Her eyes blazed and she shoved him back, hard, and caught off guard, he stumbled, bumping against the table behind him. She was disarmingly strong, but this row was getting out of hand,

 

“Don’t you  _dare_  call me that again!” she fumed, something like hurt flashing behind the fury in her eyes. The words came out broken, forced…sad. Bog blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked at her again –  _really_  looked. She was dressed to the nines, no coat, carrying a small clutch in lieu of a purse. She looked completely out of place here, and – he looked around – she'd come in alone.

And upset.

And it had absolutely nothing to do with him, he realized.

Well, it hadn’t until he’d stuck his legs out in front of her and basically told her to piss off.

 

She was still staring up at him, and strong as she clearly was, it seemed that her resolve was crumbling. Her lower lip had begun to quiver and there was a telling shimmer in the corners of her eyes. And still she glared. It was admirable, he thought as he deflated. His shoulders slumped as he released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She must have noticed the change in his posture because she took an uncertain step away from him,

 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and the young woman blinked in surprise, “It was my fault, I wasnae payin’ attention. I apologize for trippin’ you, and for,” he cleared his throat, embarrassed, gesturing vaguely to the space between them “all that,” She was silent, just staring at him in bewildered disbelief. After a long moment her shoulders finally relaxed, and the anger he’d stirred to a boil seemed to subside. The hurt, in turn, was now on full display as she curled her arms around herself and looked at the ground,

 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, clearly unsure of what else to say. Bog looked around again. The patio was deserted now, luckily, but that meant that people were gathering back inside for the second half.  _Shit_ , he had to go, but he really didn’t want to leave this poor girl alone. She hadn’t moved from her spot in front of him, and he took that as his cue,

 

“Are you okay?” he intoned quietly, carefully. She let out a short, humorless laugh,

 

“Not really,” she said tersely, and that twinge of guilt was back,

 

“I’m sorry for the hand I had in that,” he said remorsefully, and she looked up at him again, this time rather quizzically,

 

“Why do you keep apologizing?” she asked. It struck Bog as a very odd question; why shouldn’t he apologize for his behavior?

 

“Because I knocked you on your arse, and then acted like a complete twat. You didnae deserve that,” he replied honestly. She shook her head, a small, disbelieving smile playing on her lips,

 

“It’s been a long time since a man apologized to me for anything,” she said bitterly, and Bog felt his chest tighten an inch. Whatever she’d been through, he didn’t want to think about it. He suddenly felt oddly protective of this woman…at least while she was alone, cold, and probably miles away from whatever city she lived in. That was another thing,

 

“Look, uh…?”

 

“Marianne,” she supplied, and the knot in his chest loosened just a tad,

 

“Marianne. By the looks of things, you’re here on a whim, am I right?” he asked, and her small laugh had a bit more color this time,

 

“Yeah, I guess I am,” she said, looking over her shoulder toward the door. He followed her gaze,

 

“Are you meeting someone here?” Was she really here by herself? Dressed like that? It would have seemed like a risky move if she hadn’t just stared down a 6’7” Scottish ghoul and come out unfazed. She was remarkably resilient, unafraid to stand her ground, and he decided immediately that he liked that about her. She nodded in response to his question, and he felt his heart involuntarily sink a bit.  _Oh, piss off_  he reprimanded himself.  _Like she’d be interested in you after you just proved what a total prick you can be_ ,

 

“I know the emcee, Sunny,” there was that twinge again, but this time it wasn’t guilt, it was…what was it? “He’s my sister’s boyfriend,” she explained offhandedly. Twinge gone.  _Huh_. she turned back toward him, suddenly glowing with excitement, “He told me about the band playing tonight, and I  _had_  to come see them,” she gushed. He felt himself go red, and wondered if she had known who he was all along, “I’ve never seen them live before, but I have all their albums. I’ve always wanted to see them in person! They’re incredible, don’t you think?” she asked, a genuine smile flashing across her face, and once again Bog was struck by how beautiful this woman was. She was there to see  _him_ , but she clearly had no idea who  _he_  was. And here was his chance to help, to make her night truly special. He smiled,

 

“They’re something alright,” he said with a chuckle, “Exactly how far from home are ye?” Marianne shrugged,

 

“Three hours, give or take,” she admitted casually. Bog let out a low, impressed whistle,

 

“Well, you’ve missed the first half of the show, but since you’re such a big fan, I have a surprise for you,” he said, gesturing toward the door, “If you’ll permit me to escort you inside?” she looked him up and down, as if taking him in for the first time since their initial confrontation, and there was something unreadable in her expression. But then she smiled tentatively at him, and whatever it was disappeared,

 

“Sure,” she said, almost shyly, half turning toward the door. Bog was suddenly at a loss for what to do with his hands. He felt like he should reach out to her, comfort her somehow, but an arm around the shoulder was far too intimate a gesture between strangers, and taking her hand would just be weird. Damn him for being so socially inept. He settled for offering her his arm, and she took it as they walked inside together.

 

The lights had already gone back down. Damn, he was late. He quickly walked her up to the front row, and quietly gestured toward a seat near the left side of the stage. She sat, but gave him a confused look when he didn’t join her,

 

“Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he whispered reassuringly. She gave a small nod, and watched him retreat to the other side of the stage and disappear behind the curtain.

 

*

 

Pare was down his throat the moment he arrived backstage,

 

“Where ‘ave you been then?” he asked, irritated, “We were due back on stage three minutes ago!” Bog just smiled and rolled his eyes, flexing his fingers and only slightly regretting the mostly full glass of whiskey he’d abandoned on the table outside,

 

“Is Hearken My Love still in the rotation?” he asked, and Pare narrowed his eyes,

 

“Aye, why?” he asked suspiciously,

 

“Pull it to the front,” he said without explanation. He was being rash, changing the set in the middle of a show, but the thought of Marianne waiting quietly and unsuspecting in the front row made his heart thud in his chest, and it filled him with determination. Pare just sighed and rolled his eyes,

 

“I’ll pass it along, I s’pose,” he said flatly. Bog nodded, his eyes glued to the small sliver of light poking through the curtain. The emcee – Sunny – took the spotlight to a round of cheers and welcomed the band back to the stage, and this time when Bog felt the anticipation clawing at him, he welcomed it.

 _Relax. Breathe._  He chanted silently, and then the curtain parted and he let the lights blind him for a moment. When they focused again, they immediately found Marianne, and her utterly stunned expression made his stomach flutter elatedly.

 

Stuff introduced the second set, and Bog reached once again for his low whistle. The tune began with soft guitar, and as the crowd once again fell silent, Bog winked down at Marianne before raising the whistle to his lips. The melody emerged, tender and sweet as Thang matched it with flawless harmony. They weaved the notes around each other, and when he looked back down at Marianne, her hands were clasped over her nose and mouth in disbelief. He was also fairly certain she’d turned an alarming shade of red, but her eyes were glued to him, and they were shining.

 

He saw her shoulders rise suddenly when their eyes met, and he almost missed the cue to turn and grab his pipes. He whipped around, losing her gaze for a few seconds, and when he turned back, her eyes had grown impossible wide. Her expression was categorically reverent, and he had to look away and refocus for fear of losing his concentration in the depths of warm honey. He and the band worked their way from slow air, to strathspey, and finally to another reel which was an old favorite of his; The Mason’s Apron. It was slippery and complex, and had fantastic energy that never failed to please a crowd. It also allowed Bog to show off a bit which, he could admit, was his motivation at the moment.

 

The second they slid into the reel, he met Marianne’s eyes again, and his breath caught. She was absolutely beaming, seemingly unable to contain her excitement; she almost looked she might cry from joy, and Bog’s chest swelled as he threw himself full tilt into the tune, adding a few extra flourishes and embellishments here and there. Thang would never let him hear the end of it, but it was all worth it in that moment to see the smile on Marianne’s face. Was this how Stuff and Thang felt on stage all the time?

 

They spent the entire second half in much the same way, Bog subtly showing off for Marianne, and she, in turn, utterly captivated by his performance. About half way through, Bog caught Stuff’s eye, and she gave him a knowing smirk; evidently, she had caught on. He grinned toothily around his blowpipe, causing the older woman to laugh as she strummed out a lively rhythm. The set came to a triumphant end, and Marianne was practically vibrating in her seat. She looked so excited, and impassioned by their music, and it felt  _wonderful_  to see her looking at him like he’d hung the stars in the sky. Bog was sad that the show was over; he could have played for her all night.

 

The band took their bows, and before they left the stage, he mouthed ‘wait there’ to Marianne. She cocked her head, confused for a second, then, realizing he meant to come find her again, flushed bright red. She gave a short, jerking nod, and sat down stiffly to wait for him. Bog was nervous, too, he realized. What exactly was he going to say to her now that the surprise had been sprung? ‘Tada!’? He shook his head. His best bet would probably be to apologize again, wish her well, and…sign something for her? Maybe? Gods, that would be embarrassing, but she had admitted to being an avid fan, so he could probably—

 

His thoughts were cut short as he emerged from backstage. People flocked to him, shouting and  _ooh_ -ing and _aah_ -ing, but Bog’s eyes were fixed on the back of a tall, blonde man who was arguing with Marianne. He didn’t know where the guy had come from, but Bog was familiar enough with Marianne’s less-than-inviting expressions to see that she was livid. Whoever this person was, she was  _not_  happy to see him. He wondered briefly if this was one of those men she hadn’t ever gotten a deserved apology from, before squaring his shoulders and pushing through the crowd.


	2. Chapter 2

Bog Thornhill. Of course, it had been Bog Thornhill that had unwittingly stumbled upon her while she was on a warpath. Three and a half hours on the road to rural god-knows-where to escape from Roland, clear her head, and watch one of her favorite bands perform live, and she was too wrapped up in her fury to recognize  _Bog fucking Thornhill_. She was mortified, to say the least. She’d yelled at him. She’d  _shoved_  him. And then  _he_ had apologized!

 

 _Fuck_  she thought as Bog and his band prepared to play. When he’d walked out on stage, she had just about passed out in her seat, and once they started playing all she could do was bury her face in her hands and stare. He winked down at her, and her cheeks burned red as the enormity of the situation settled into her mind. She’d been so disarmed by his sudden switch from prickly and unpleasant to considerate and concerned…he had an accent for crying out loud! How had she missed that?! But then they were playing, and it didn’t seem to matter anymore. He’d sat her at the very front, right next to where he played now, and gods, could be  _play_. It was mesmerizing to watch, and she couldn’t stop the enraptured smile that blossomed across her face.

 

He kept sneaking peeks down at her, and every time their eyes met there seemed to be this little spark of… _something_  that jolted between them. And then he was showing off. She knew the tunes by heart, and even for a live show he was embellishing. Was it for her benefit? Was he flirting with her? Was it possible to flirt with someone while playing an instrument?  _By_  playing an instrument? Whatever he was doing, it was working, because she could feel the warmth on her cheeks. And apart from that she began to notice things about him.

 

He was tall –  _very_  tall – which she had only really begun the appreciate at the tail end of their confrontation on the patio. His features were angular, sharp, but strangely alluring, and it dawned on her that she found him very handsome, especially when he played. He moved with the music, and was a very expressive performer. Not to mention ridiculously talented. She had spent years listening to the band’s albums, committing every tune to memory, and now to see them in person…she couldn’t describe it. All she knew was that she was ecstatic, star-struck, and admittedly turned on by the way he kept glancing down at her. And the way he played. Just everything.

 

It was over far too soon, and before she knew it, the band was taking their bows and he was silently asking her to stay put so he could come find her.  _Crap_  she thought, as that fact registered.  _Oh, crap_. Now she knew who he was, and how she felt about who he was, and she had behaved so badly to him, and  _shit_! Had she even apologized to him? She hadn’t.  _Oh god dammit, Marianne!_  She chided herself. What a stellar first impression she’d made. Well, that would be the first thing she did, apologize to the poor guy for being a total bitch to him. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and the words tumbled out of her mouth as she spun around,

 

“I’m sorry!” she practically shouted, taking the newcomer by surprise. But it wasn’t Bog, and she immediately felt her stomach drop as she recognized the interloper,

 

“Well that’s mighty fine to hear, Buttercup,” Roland drawled, squeezing the shoulder he’d grabbed, “I was beginning to think you’d never come around,” he flashed her a smile and she wanted to vomit. She wrenched herself out of his grip and glared at him accusingly,

 

“What are you doing here, Roland? Didn’t I make it clear that I never,  _ever_  wanted to see you again?” she spat, wishing the crowd would clear so she could get away from him. He rolled his eyes patronizingly,

 

“C’mon, now, darlin’! Don’t be so—“

 

“How did you find me?” she demanded, suddenly scared for her safety. She was two hundred miles from the club in Chicago where he’d tried this earlier the same night, so how the hell had he tracked her down?

 

“I just checked the GPS tracker on your phone, sweetness, no big deal,” he shrugged, and her stomach turned,

 

“No big deal? Are you kidding?” she hissed “You can’t just follow me around Roland! We’re not together anymore, and even if we were, do you know how fucking creepy that is? You need to leave. Now, or I swear to god I’ll call the cops,” She threatened. Roland’s expression went from charming and indulgent to steely in the blink of an eye, but Marianne refused to shrink back. This prick wasn’t going to intimidate her anymore,

 

“We’re going back to Chicago, Marianne. Now. You had your fun, you got to be dramatic and call the shots for a while, but now…” he trailed off, noticing that Marianne was suddenly distracted. She had, in fact, caught sight of Bog making his way toward them through the thinning crowd. He didn’t look happy. She felt her heart do a little flip as he approached, and before Roland could follow her gaze, Bog was standing behind him, looming really, and his low voice came out sharp,

 

“Can I see your ticket, lad?” he asked sarcastically, and Marianne bit her lip to stifle and laugh. Roland whirled around and found himself face-to-face with Bog’s clavicle, and the sight of him stumbling backward to look up and meet Bog’s eye was hilariously satisfying,

 

“I don’t need a ticket, buddy, the show is over,” he replied icily. Bog raised an eyebrow, unimpressed,

 

“Cover charge, mate. Pay or leave,” his words rang with finality, and Roland looked him over, probably wondering who the hell this guy was to make demands of him. Bog’s gaze briefly drifted to Marianne, silently asking if she was okay. She took a step away from Roland and shook her head minutely. That was all Bog needed, “Awright, time’s up. Out,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. Roland appeared to have collected himself a bit, and gave Bog a tight smile,

 

“Happy to oblige, friend, we were just leaving,” he turned to grab Marianne’s arm,

 

“Don’t touch me, Roland!” she snapped, jerking herself out of his reach. He lunged at her, but Bog was faster. He snagged Roland by the back of his shirt and pinned one of the smaller man’s arms behind his back. Roland let out a yelp as Bog put himself between them,

 

“Are you okay?” he asked for the second time that evening. This time Marianne just smiled gratefully,

 

“Thank you,” she breathed, laying a small hand gently on his bicep. Then she swallowed hard, “He followed me here. I came here to get away from him, and he fucking followed me,” Bog’s jaw clenched as he looked down at Roland, who was now complaining loudly, drawing the eyes of those around them,

 

“Boyfriend?” he asked flatly. Marianne shook her head vehemently,

 

" _Fiance,_ " Roland spat, and Bog felt despair creep over him; despair and fury. But Marianne was quick to correct,

 

“ _No_ , not anymore. I left him months ago, he just doesn’t seem to _get it_ ,” to put sharp emphasis on the last two words, spitting them at Roland forcefully,

 

“How did he find you?” He kept the relief he felt from coloring his tone, far more concerned now with Marianne's safety,

 

“He said he tracked my phone,” Bog ground his teeth,

 

“So you’re a stalker,” he turned back to Roland, disgust written all over his face. Marianne’s attention was drawn by the approaching security guards pushing their way through the thinning crowd, and Bog nodded when he saw them, “So what should I tell them, that you followed your ex here without her knowledge or permission? Or just that you didnae pay the entry fee?” his voice was quiet and even, but venomous nonetheless. Roland sneered at them both, but thought better of making a scene,

 

“I’ll leave,” he snarled,

 

“I’ll make sure of it,” Bog agreed as the security guards reached them,

 

“What’s the issue here, guys?” one of them asked, obviously annoyed. Bog released Roland’s arm and stepped away,

 

“Just someone refusing to pay their way, chief,” Bog answered casually. The guard looked back and forth between the two of them before shaking his head,

 

“Didn’t know they had your performing  _and_  bouncing, Bog,” he quipped, taking Roland by the arm and leading him toward the door, “Next time just call us, okay? It freaks out the patrons when they have to report this kind of crap,”

 

“You got it,” he called as Roland was hauled away. He shot them both a dirty look before being roughly escorted outside. Bog turned back to Marianne, and she found herself at a loss for words – they both did. Neither said anything for an awkward moment, then, remembering her absent apology, she hurried to speak,

 

“I’m sorry!”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

 

It all came out at once, and they paused for a second, then laughed softly at the serendipity. Mercifully Bog spoke first, which Marianne was grateful for, because she was pretty sure he had asked to buy her a drink, and she needed a second to process that,

 

“What do you have to be sorry for?” he asked, and she waved toward his legs,

 

“The bruises on your shins, for one,” she chuckled guiltily. Then her voice took on a somber tone, “And for being so awful to you earlier. I never apologized for be so rude, and shoving you, and…” suddenly the reality of who this man was came flooding back, “And oh, my god, you’re Bog Thornhill,” her eyes went wide, once again completely star struck. Bog chuckled,

 

“Aye,” he replied in a low timbre, and boy if that didn’t send a pleasant shiver down her spine. It also rendered her infuriatingly incoherent,

 

“I…um…thank you for…I didn’t mean to…I love your music, you’re absolutely incredible…I should…oh my god,” Marianne had never stuck her foot so far in her mouth in her life, and she desperately hoped he didn’t think she was a complete idiot. But he just chuckled at her ineloquence, unbothered. He was probably used to people making fools of themselves in front of him she reasoned. Somehow, though she doubted he offered to buy all those people a drink. He had offered, hadn’t he? She looked up at him shyly, wondering if he would make the offer again, and realized after a beat that he was much closer than she had thought. Stepping between her and Roland had put him less than a forearm’s length away, and now he was just looking at her, his expression soft, inquisitive, and something else...

 

“Would you have a drink with me?” he asked again, and she smiled. Suddenly the air around them seemed a great deal warmer. _Yes_ , she decided internally. Yes, she would have a drink with him. After all the bullshit she’d been through today and all Bog and done for her, she felt like she deserved it.

 

* * *

 

 _Say something_ , he thought to himself. He was staring at her while she stared back. She was close; close enough that he could reach out and brush back the hair from her eyes if he wanted to. It was tempting, but he didn’t want to scare her off, so he did the only gentlemanly thing that came to mind at that moment: he took a step back, trying not to let the flash of disappointment in her eyes change his mind,

 

“Would you have a drink with me?” he tried again, at a safer distance, and to his delight and relief, she smiled warmly up at him and nodded,

 

“I’d really like that,” she replied earnestly, and he honestly couldn't believe his good luck. He opened his mouth to respond, but clamped it back shut as Pare shouted at him from the stage,

 

“Oy, dobber!” Bog grimaced, but couldn’t help chuckling as he turned to stared disapprovingly at Pare,

 

“Yes dear?” he called back sardonically,

 

“Gonnae no dae that right now, we got shite to put awa’,” he chided before disappearing behind the curtain again. He turned his gaze back to Marianne, and laughed again at how confused she looked,

 

“Was that English?” she asked, bewildered,

 

“In some form,” he grinned, “He’s right though, we’ve gotta tear down. I’m sorry, would you…would you wait for a bit?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t asking too much of this poor woman. She nodded again,

 

“Sure, it's not like I'm going to go wandering around with that psychopath out there,” she huffed a laugh, fixing her gaze in the middle distance. Her smile faded, and then it occurred to him; where was she staying tonight? He glanced to the large clock on the far wall near the bar. It was late. Was she planning to drive all the way home? He chewed his bottom lip for a moment before reaching over and gently pressing a hand to her mid back. Her eyes flicked back up to his immediately, and he gave her a gentle smile,

 

“Fifteen minutes, okay?” he said reassuringly, and she nodded minutely,

 

“Okay,” she breathed. He inclined his head toward her in thanks, then carefully moved past her, his hand brushing lightly across the expanse of her back and arm as he headed for the stage. The gesture sent a warm shiver down Marianne’s spine, but her reaction was missed by Bog, who was subtly flexing the hand that had touched her. His skin tingled where it had slid against the fabric of her dress, and his entire body felt too-warm.  _Control yourself_ , he scolded. Little did he know that Marianne was telling herself the very same thing as she watched his retreating back. 

 

* 

 

All eyes were on Bog as he rejoined his bandmates, and he did his best to ignore their mirthful stares, because he knew what they were thinking; he  _never_  behaved this way. He never really spoke to anyone, never changed a set, or a tune, and he certainly never openly flirted with any women. The only person who knew about his last relationship was Pare, and he was a good enough friend to never mention it to anyone, not even Stuff and Thang. As such, the looks he received now consisted of Pare, whose gaze was a mix of concern and irritation, Stuff, who looked pleased as punch that Bog had taken such an unexpected interest in someone –  _anyone_  – and Thang, who also looked relatively annoyed, but interested just the same. Bog disassembled his pipes and laid them carefully in their case before slipping the covers onto his whistles. He had packed his belongings up and started unravelling mic cords before the stares boring into his back became too much. He took a breath, 

 

“What?” he asked flatly, turning to his companions. Stuff kept glancing excitedly at her husband, who said nothing but raised one bushy eyebrow, clearly hoping for an explanation of some sort. Pare finally broke the awkward silence, 

 

“Wassa deal, mate?” he asked, tilting his head toward the stage. His brow was furrowed – he knew better than anyone that Bog was acting strangely. Bog drew a breath, and then exhaled through his nose, 

 

“She’s a long way from home, and she’s alone. I’m just tryin’ to make sure she’s alright,” he assured them, hoping to leave it at that,

 

“Then what was all tha’ on stage?” Thang chimed in to Bog’s chagrin. Bog turned back to the mic he was fiddling with, trying to sound casual,

 

“She’s a big fan of m—of  _ours_ , and she came all the way out here, so I figured I’d make it special for her,” he said, realizing as he spoke how incredibly sappy that all sounded. Stuff stifled a giggle, and Thang roll his eyes with an amused grin,

 

“Where did you even find her?” the fiddler continued, and it was Bog’s turn to bite back a grin, 

 

“We, uh…had a row out on the patio when she came in that almost ended with me on my arse,” he said, amused by the memory. Thang snorted and Stuff bit her lip to keep from laughing outright,

 

“How did that happen?” Pare asked, interest piqued. Bog rolled his eyes, trying to field their questions while finishing up as quickly as possible,

 

“She tripped,” he said simply,

 

“Over what?”  _Ugh_ ,

 

“Me,” he replied, knowing at this point that there was no point in trying to beat around the bush, “I was havin’ a rest, and she came in and toppled over my legs. We were both pretty nasty to each other about it until I realized she looked like she needed help…” his words faded as Stuff’s cackling leaking into the air from where she was hiding her face in Thang’s shirt sleeve. Thang himself was chuckling spiritedly, and even Pare looked entertained, shaking his head,

 

“So who put who on their arse, exactly?” he asked. Bog grabbed another mic cord,

 

“I thought she was going to break my nose. Luckily all I got was a shove,”

 

“She  _shoved_  you?” Thang asked, incredulous, to which Bog simply nodded,

 

“Got a bit of fire, that one, eh?” Stuff chimed in. Bog could hear the mirth in Pare’s voice when his friend spoke again,

 

“Did she know who you were while you were lobbing pleasantries at each other? You said she was a fan,” he reasoned. Bog shook his head,

 

“She had no idea. She’s never been to a show before,” he answered sheepishly. Stuff practically squealed,

 

“That’s so romantic!” Bog blanched. Was it? “So when you came out on stage, she must have looked...?” she trailed off, waiting for Bog to fill in the blanks,

 

“Absolutely mortified,” he offered. Undeterred, the guitarist squealed again,

 

“Imagine being swept off your feet by your idol!” she swooned, and Bog gave her a skeptical look,

 

“Buying her a drink is hardly ‘sweeping her off her feet’,” he retorted. All three pairs of eyebrows shot up at once,

 

“So you actually asked her out?” Stuff asked eagerly. Bog, swallowed. That wasn’t what he had intended, at least he didn’t think so, but…then again, maybe it was,

 

“Aye, sort of,” he said cautiously, and suddenly Stuff looked positively affronted,

 

“What are you doing back  _here_?! We’ll handle all this, you go!” she gave him a push toward the stairs that lead back out to the aisles,

 

“What? No…but—“

 

“ _Go_ ,” she said firmly. He looked to his other friends, but Thang knew better than to argue, and Pare just shook his head and returned to packing up. Bog swallowed hard and headed for the stairs,

 

“Oh, Bog!” Stuff called after him, and he spun around,

 

“What?”

 

“The bar here is closing down, but the hotel serves Champagne until 2am,” she winked. Bog somehow managed to pale and go bright red simultaneously, before turning and walking tensely toward the aisles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, the response to this fic has been amazing! Ya'll are too good to me, I'm so happy people are enjoying it! I'm trying to keep the interactions between the characters as realistic as possible, and I hope this story is flowing naturally. Thanks again for the support, you guys are the best!


	3. Chapter 3

> Upon his return, Bog found Marianne studying the show poster near the exit. He watched her stare at his likeness, and a strange mix of heady warmth and pride washed through him. He imagined her driving to work, popping one of their albums into the CD player and cranking the volume up during her commute, or wearing a pair of over-sized headphones, listening to them play while she sat curled on her couch, or sprawled across her bed…
> 
> He shook that thought from his head and cleared his throat as he approached her. She turned toward him and he was met once again with her mesmerizing eyes. She looked sleepy, but still lit up at the sight of him, and he found himself hoping that the adoration she held was more than skin deep, now that she knew exactly who he was.
> 
> He wasn’t exactly used to women throwing themselves at him, but there had been a handful over the years. He didn't use to mind that the women whose interest he piqued saw him was a conquest, a story to tell their friends, and nothing more. Most of them would claim it was the other way around when he, on the odd occasion, indulged them, and the experience never failed to leave him feeling uncomfortably hollow; the cold, grasping hands and unfocused, averted gazes haunted him and weighed him down until he felt numb, and impossibly empty. Not even his ex had really looked at him when they were together; she was far more concerned with the perks of appearing on the arm of a famous musician. Not famous enough, as it had turned out.
> 
> Once that relationship crashed and burned, he'd developed an almost Pavlovian response to the very idea of love; he avoided women whenever possible, particularly at shows, and would grimace or even flinch if they ever so much as winked in his direction. It was during that time that he’d really thrown himself into his music and focused on little else. He let the feel of it winding around his mind and flowing through his fingers consume him, and in recalling the severity of his self-imposed isolation, it was startling how easily Marianne had broken through.
> 
> No, he had never wanted to put himself in the path of heartbreak ever again, but...Marianne was a wholly separate experience. Stuff had been right when she’d said the young woman was fiery. Her bite and determination in the face of heartache and mistreatment, contrasted with her sudden, unerring vulnerability, was both disarming and endearing. She was in awe of him, sure, but she didn’t look  _hungry_. Even so, he couldn't quiet the nagging apprehension that accompanied her revelation. He desperately hoped that she would see past all the pomp to the reality of who he was, and that, once the novelty wore off, she was the breath of fresh air he needed.
> 
> The way she had watched him play had been enraptured, passionate even, like he was the very last word in music of any kind. She actually looked at him when they spoke, which was, frankly, a miracle, because he knew from previous _encounters_  that he really wasn’t considered much to look at. It was ridiculous to hang all his hope on this woman he’d just met simply because she hadn’t immediately brushed him off or invited him to bed, he knew, but there was something in the easiness of her smile that tremendously and unnervingly encouraging.
> 
> He pulled himself out of his deep well of thought and focused on the back of Marianne’s hand as she raised it to her mouth, stifling a yawn. She really was sleepy,
> 
> “Hey,” she greeted him with a smile that made his heart hammer against his ribs,
> 
> “Hey,” he responded softly, “You ready?” her face fell, and her look of disappointment caught him off guard. Had she changed her mind?
> 
> “The bar’s closed,” she said remorsefully, and he kicked himself internally. Stuff had told him that not 45 seconds prior, how had he forgotten?
> 
> “Ah, well…” he trailed off, weighing his options. He could ask for a rain check, but that would probably make him look like an asshole, especially since he’d asked her to wait for him. They could try another bar, he thought. He checked the clock again – 12:45am – still early enough for most places, but Marianne was looking almost dead on her feet. That was a no-go, and there was no way in hell he was going to take Stuff’s suggestion about room service champagne, but…
> 
> An idea struck him then; Marianne was alone, and exhausted, with  _hours_  between her and home, and an unstable ex following her around…and he had a bed...
> 
> “Where are you staying tonight?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. Marianne looked at him sharply, clearly misinterpreting the question. He floundered, quickly spewing an explanation, “No, I…sorry, that’s no’ what I meant. It’s just you said you drove a long way to get here, and it’s late, and I’d hate for you to have to drive after everything…your ex might be waitin’ for you, and I…well,” Marianne’s gaze had gone from suspicious, to confused, to surprised, and now she was staring owlishly at him, waiting for his next words. 
> 
> He knew he was acting rashly – once he made this suggestion there would be no going back no matter the outcome. He knew that doing this would utterly invalidate  _everything_  he’d done to avoid this exact situation over the last few years…but he also knew that if he didn’t take this wholly unexpected chance he’d been given, she would leave and that would be it. He would probably never see her again, and that was…unacceptable. Taking a deep breath, he decided to go with his gut,
> 
> “Look, we’re set up at the Hotel a few miles from here. We each have our own rooms. I could bunk with Pare and you could use mine,” he offered awkwardly. This evening was far and away the largest step out of his comfort zone he’d taken since the first time he played his pipes in a public park. When she didn’t respond Bog panicked and tried to backtrack, “Er…or we could get you your own room. Whatever makes you comfortable,” he amended. She took a moment to consider his words, then her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink and she looked away,
> 
> “You don’t have to do all that. I’ll…I’m fine, I’ll just…sleep in my car,” she said to the floor, “Thank you though,”
> 
> “Nonsense,” a voice piped up from behind them. They both turned to see Stuff towing Thang down the aisle toward them, with Pare not far behind, “There’s no chance we’re letting you crash in your car. Pare doesn’t mind sharing, do you Pare?” she turned and gave the taller man a meaningful look that said she’d already told him exactly what he did and didn’t mind. He looked exasperated, but shook his head, and Stuff beamed,
> 
> “See? Sorted!” she let go of her husband’s hand and pranced over to Marianne,
> 
> “I’m Siobhan,” she held out her hand and Marianne took it, seemingly back to being star-struck, “That’s my husband Thomas, and our friend Peter,” they all greeted Marianne as warmly as they could manage after a long show. Only Stuff seemed to have endless reserves of energy, and she really wasn’t holding back, “So, Bog tells us you’re a fan. Did you enjoy the show?” she tittered. Marianne went from pink to scarlet in the blink of an eye, giving Bog what might have been a reproving look if it hadn’t been outshone by her emphatic smile,
> 
> “It was absolutely  _amazing_ ,” she replied breathlessly, “I had no idea music could feel like that, you’re all so incredible. I can’t even describe it; What you guys do…it’s beyond words,” she bubbled passionately, and he watched as even Pare preened subtly under her praise. Stuff beamed,
> 
> “That’s the magic of a live performance! Now,” she grabbed Thang’s hand again and squeezed, “Come on, lads – and lassies – let’s get a move on,” The three of them turned and ambled toward the back of the building, but Marianne spoke up again,
> 
> “I…I’m sorry, I can’t,” she stammered. Bog’s heart dropped with disappointment at her rejection, but he knew he didn’t have any right to protest, “It’s really amazing that you’d offer, but I couldn’t put you all out like that. You all must be exhausted, and you’ve been travelling,” she reasoned, and Bog couldn’t help admiring her humility, “And as a fan of what you guys do, I really wouldn’t feel right taking advantage of you all like that, so…thank you, but…” she trailed off, staring at her shoes. Bog gazed down at her for a second before looking up and meeting Stuff’s eye. She wore an amused yet empathetic smile as she looked from him down to the younger woman beside him,
> 
> “Alright, you lot, clear out so the lady and I can chat,” she looked pointedly at Bog, and inclined her head toward the back, “Go on, you, we willnae be a moment,” she assured him. He didn’t particularly like the idea, but he, like the others, knew better than to argue, and he quietly hoped that Stuff could convince Marianne to change her mind. He absentmindedly touched his hand to Marianne’s back again in reassurance, giving her a small smile before joining his friends in the back.
> 
> *
> 
> Marianne’s heart pounded in her ears as she felt Bog softly caress her back for the second time that evening. It was a small, casual gesture, but coming from him it felt unexpectedly intimate, almost protective, and it sent a shiver of warmth rolling through her. She’d spent the entire evening watching his fingers as they effortlessly traversed the complicated melodies of the music she loved so much, but now her mind strayed to thoughts of him using those fingers in other ways. She blushed up to her ears as she felt her stomach tighten in response, and forced herself to focus on the woman in front of her as Bog disappeared behind the curtain,
> 
> “So exactly how far from home are you?” Siobhan asked, her tone low and abruptly sober. Marianne swallowed,
> 
> “I live in Chicago,” she said softly, and Siobhan nodded thoughtfully, pulling out her phone. She tapped the screen a few times and waited, and suddenly her eyes went wide,
> 
> “That’s over 200 miles from here!” she gasped, and Marianne smiled sheepishly,
> 
> “I know, I can be impulsive sometimes,” she laughed ruefully. Siobhan brows furrowed with concern,
> 
> “What were you running from, darlin’?” she asked, and Marianne balked at her perceptiveness,
> 
> “I…was angry. My ex ambushed me at my apartment while I was waiting for my sister. We fought, and I drove off. I never imagined he’d follow me all the way out here…” Marianne’s words faded as she took in Siobhan’s horrified expression,
> 
> “Sorry, did you say he  _followed you here_? From  _Chicago_?” she asked incredulously, and it struck Marianne, not for the first, time just how terrifying that was. And worse yet, knowing Roland, there was no way he’d drive all the way out here just to go back empty-handed. She swallowed. He was probably still in town. Hell, he might be waiting for her outside for all she knew,
> 
> “Not that we’re complaining,” Siobhan prefaced with a small smile, “But what brings you all the way out here? Why not just go meet your sister?” Marianne looked back up toward the stage and sighed. The older woman had a point. Marianne knew she’d been reckless, and more than a little stubborn,
> 
> “I guess I just wanted to go somewhere that he couldn’t get to me, where he couldn’t just pop up and…” she laughed humorlessly at how horribly her plan had backfired, “He didn’t take the break-up well, and he won’t leave me alone. I knew about the show here because my sister’s boyfriend is…Oh!” she cried, startling Siobhan back a step, “Sorry! Sorry, I just remembered that I’m supposed to meet up with the emcee, Sunny!” she whipped her head around and took a few steps away from her companion, “Sunny?” she called loudly. She turned and headed toward the sound booth, only to find it empty and dark.  _Shit_ , she thought, had he already left? She dug around her bag for her phone and quickly dialed his number. It rang and rang as Marianne worried her bottom lip, and when he didn’t answer she tried again. Still nothing. Why would he… _oh_. “He must have gotten called in,” she realized, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.  _Crap. Crap, crap, crap._  She considered calling her sister to confirm, but knew Dawn would already be sound asleep.  _It’s okay,_   _It’s just one night. I’ll be fine._  She reassured herself quietly before turning and walking back to Siobhan,
> 
> “Did you reach him?” Marianne shook her head,
> 
> “No, I think he must have gotten called into work. He’s a pediatric nurse, but he moonlights sometimes at an emergency clinic. Gets called in at all hours when they’re short-handed, that’s the only reason I can think of that he’d have left so quickly,” she leaned against a chair back apathetically, “Bad luck,” she murmured to herself. Siobhan chewed her lip for a few seconds before placing a comforting hand on Marianne’s arm,
> 
> “Our offer still stands, even if it’s just letting us get you back to the hotel safely. You can get your own room, if that’s what you want, but I know we’d all feel much better if we knew you were there instead of here sleeping in your car, alone,” she emphasized the last word, and Marianne knew she was right. Staying here by herself with Roland lurking around was  _not_ an option, and there was just no way she’d make it back to Chicago in one piece if she set out now. She shared a knowing look with Siobhan before nodding her head,
> 
> “Okay, I’ll stick with you guys. Thank you,” she said, and Siobhan smiled gratefully. She took Marianne’s hand and squeezed gently,
> 
> “We donnae bite, I promise,” she quipped light-heartedly, drawing a laugh from Marianne, “The boys are all perfect gentlemen, even Pare. Your trepidation about all this goes a long way with him, believe it or no’. He’ll never admit it, but he respects you for respecting us,” Marianne smiled. It helped to hear that no one seemed imposed-upon by her presence, even though she was planning to book her own room once they got there. Still, there was one thing that tugged at her morality,
> 
> “Can I ask you something? About Bog?” she asked quietly, and Siobhan’s smile turned shrewd,
> 
> “What about him?”
> 
> “Does he, I mean…he offered to let me use his room, even though he doesn’t know me. That seems like a lot of trouble to go through out of the blue,” she looked down. Siobhan just nodded,
> 
> “Bog has always been very kind, though I can’t say this has ever happened before,” she mused. Marianne relaxed a little, relieved, but still uneasy,
> 
> “So this doesn’t happen often? I mean, he doesn’t ever…you know,” Siobhan’s brows shot up with amused surprise, and Marianne floundered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I know that’s personal, but I’ve admired him for so long, I guess…I just want to know what to expect,” she said in a rush. The last thing she wanted to do what insult Bog or  _any_  of his companions, but she wouldn’t allow herself to wander into something she wasn’t prepared for, and she hoped Siobhan would understand. She forced herself to meet Siobhan’s steady gaze, unsure of what sort of response to expect. The other woman searched her eyes for several long moments,
> 
> “What do  _you_  expect?” there was no malice or implication in Siobhan’s tone, only guarded curiosity.
> 
> “Nothing,” Marianne replied with a shake of her head, “I didn’t expect any of this, and I certainly don’t expect… _that_ ,” the loaded silence stretched between them, until at last Siobhan gave a short, satisfied nod, having apparently come to a decision about Marianne’s intentions,
> 
> “I willnae tell you the particulars, lass,” she said took a step closer, lowering her voice, “but I can say that you’re the first woman he’s willingly spoken to, aside from meself and his mam, in a very long time,” her smile was warm, but somewhat reserved, “You can decide for yourself what that means to you, but I can promise ye, unless you grab him by the ear and explicitly order him to have his way, that man won’t touch you,”
> 
> “I would  _never_  do that!” Marianne cried indignantly, flushing at the images the words ‘ _have his way’_  conjured. She quickly forced them away, and Siobhan laughed out loud,
> 
> “Of course not, darlin’! You’re not  _that_  type, I can tell,” she giggled. Then, in a whispered, conspiratorial tone, she added, “He is handsome though, isn’t he?” It seemed physically impossible for Marianne to blush any harder, but somehow, she managed. She could admit that it their very short acquaintance, Bog had quickly topped the list of the most attractive men she had ever seen. He was tall and slim, but his frame and height were perfectly proportioned. His muscle tone was subtle, but difficult to ignore when his shirt clung to his frame as he perspired under the stage lights. Broad shoulders tapered down to a slim waist, and gave way to legs a mile long. He was Marianne’s personal definition of sexy _,_ but it was more than that; it was the way he carried himself, his sarcastic yet compassionate personality, the passion in his playing, all of it. She didn’t know him, not really, but she  _wanted_  to, and it was becoming clear that she would need to keep  _that_  part of herself in check if she was going to survive the night,
> 
> “Yes,” she admitted readily, keeping her composure, “And thank you for telling me, I know you didn’t have to,” She said, and Siobhan shook her head,
> 
> “Trust me, darlin’ if Bog were that sort, I wouldnae be vouching for him. That said, if you’re in a room of your own, the point is moot.” She smiled. Marianne nodded, and at that moment Thang appeared on the stage,
> 
> “We’re headin’ out, love!” he yelled, and Siobhan tugged on Marianne’s hand,
> 
> “Time to go,” she smiled, and Marianne nodded, digging into her bag for her keys as they made their way up the stairs. The moment she laid eyes on Bog again, dizzying warmth bloomed in her abdomen, and she almost squeezed her thighs together instinctively. His crystal blue eyes focused on her immediately, and despite what she’d said only moments prior, her body clearly had its own agenda. The way he quickly raked his eyes over her form when she came into his field of view before hurriedly looking away only egged her on, and her body and mind were instantly at war. This was going to be difficult.
> 
> *
> 
> “So, I’ll just follow you guys?” she asked, still feeling slightly out of place, Stuff nodded,
> 
> “Bog, you go along wi’ Marianne so she doesnae get lost,” She suggested offhandedly. Bog looked over at Marianne, silently asking if she was comfortable with that arrangement. She still seemed gun-shy about the whole plan, but gave him a nod and small smile,
> 
> “Aye, will do. See you in a bit then, yeah?” he replied, and the others nodded as they headed toward the parking lot. Marianne lead the way to her car. Luckily, her ex – Roland? – didn’t seem to hang waited around, which was fine by Bog. Marianne breathed a relieved sigh when she saw the coast was clear, but her shoulders remained tense. He hoped she’d be able to relax enough to get some sleep once she had some privacy. He tried hard not to think about her curled up in his bed wearing whatever practically non-existent undergarments lent themselves to being easily concealed under her form-fitting dress. Maybe she wore nothing underneath it. Bog swallowed hard at the thought and bit the inside of his cheek, chastising himself once again for being a total knob. She’d probably opt to get her own room anyway, so there was no point in imagining. Marianne stopped beside a vintage bug, and Bog cocked an eyebrow,
> 
> “I’m surprised this thing made it here from Chicago in one piece,” he remarked playfully, and Marianne feigned injury,
> 
> “Excuse you, sir, but I keep my baby in tip top condition. She’s never quit on me, and I’ve taken cross-country.  _Twice_ ,” she retorted, all confidence and pride. He blinked as he processed her words,
> 
> “You’re a mechanic?” he asked, impressed. She nodded smugly, as if daring him to act surprised. He was, admittedly, but he had no trouble believing it. He nodded as nonchalantly as possible,
> 
> “Might ‘ave you take a look at the van before we pick up for Nevada. I’ve been tellin’ Pare that she needs a tweak,” he replied smoothly, and even in the dark, Marianne’s eye sparkled at his offer, and Bog took note that he’d discovered another passion of hers. He squeezed himself, with no small amount of effort, into the tiny vehicle. His knees bumped the dashboard, and there wasn’t much of anywhere for his seat to go, but as soon as Marianne turned the key and cranked up the heater, he couldn’t bring himself to mind. The old bug roared to life, and the engine hummed smoothly. Marianne still looked smug when he glanced side-long at her, and he watched in slight awe as she deftly switched gears, maneuvering the vehicle with ease,
> 
> “And were off,” she said, more to herself than to Bog. They followed the van back to the hotel, and as they drove Bog pointed out the decent restaurants he’d visited during their stay, as well as a bar he’d found that stocked decent whiskey,
> 
> “Don’t you drink anything else?” she asked teasingly, and Bog grinned,
> 
> “Oh, aye, stout, gin, wine when it suits me—oy!” he laughed as Marianne reached and swatted his shoulder,
> 
> “You’re hilarious,” she said sarcastically. There was a brief lull, and Bog glanced over to study Marianne's face. Her playful smile was still in place, but it was quickly fading, “so then ‘having a drink’ is just a regular Tuesday afternoon for you, huh?” she asked reservedly, and Bog paused, his tone suddenly slightly more subdued,
> 
> “I s’pose…I mean, donnae usually ask people to drink  _with me_ ,” he trailed off, wondering suddenly if she’d be willing to go on an actual date with him – something he hadn’t wondered about anyone in a very long time. Asking would definitely be pushing his luck, but he was having trouble controlling himself around this woman. He cleared his throat, testing the waters, “You know, it doesnae have to be a drink,” he began, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t look at him, didn’t speak, but her eyes flitted back and forth in the middle distance pensively. He pushed a bit further, “Or at least, not  _just_  a drink,” this time she drew her lips inward and caught them between her teeth, as though silently enjoying her own private joke,
> 
> “What did you have in mind?” she asked after a few beats, and he took a calming breath,
> 
> “Oh, well…" he didn't actually have a plan, "...how about dinner?” he asked, trying to appear collected and not half as eager as he felt. Her eyes remained on the road, but she set her mouth in a firm line,
> 
> “A bit late for that, isn’t it?” she paused, a flash of discomfort tugging down the corner of her mouth, “…unless you’re suggesting we get  _room service_ ,” the words were strained, uncomfortable, like they’d left a bad taste in her mouth as she’d spoken them, and Bog immediately backtracked,
> 
> “No! No, no, no, Christ, sorry. I meant tomorrow…if you’re still in town, that is,” he added, realizing too late that she could very well be leaving first thing in the morning, and he wasn’t about to insist she stay solely for his benefit. He watched her carefully, gaging her response. She looked contemplative for a moment, then shook her head quickly as if clearing her mind of trepidation – he needed to be more careful about his phrasing, he thought – but then her smile was back, and all he could do was be thankful he hadn’t done any real damage to her perception of him.  _Yet_ , anyway.
> 
> “Oh,” she said quietly, biting her bottom lip, considering his offer. He waited, but she didn’t answer. Instead, her expression returned to a look of resignation,
> 
> “Thank you, but…look, I know what happened earlier was bad, and I’m beyond grateful for your help, but I don’t want you to feel obligated to take me out because you feel sorry for me,” Bog appreciated her consideration, but that was decidedly  _not_ why he was asking, 
> 
> “You think I want to take you out because your ex is a twat?” he asked bluntly, and Marianne stifled a snort. It was true that Roland was a serious piece of work, and she was glad to be rid of him, but it didn’t keep the mention of him from stinging after all Marianne had given him. Her smile faded as she was harshly reminded of why falling so quickly was a bad idea,
> 
> “I donnae feel sorry for you, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” Bog stated simply. Marianne stiffened at his declaration, briefly taken aback, but a split second later she realized that he wasn't being antagonistic. More than that, she didn't  _want_ to be pitied, “You were smart enough to get yourself out of that mess long before you met me, and tonight you were tellin’ him to piss off before I even knew he was there,” he looked fully at her as they pulled into the hotel parking lot, and waited until she’d parked and shut off the ignition. She turned toward him expectantly, and he continued, “You can handle yourself, Marianne. You made it clear the moment we met, and I think you would have broken my nose if I hadn’t had the good sense to apologize,” Marianne’s eyes went wide, but she laughed out loud despite her horrified expression,
> 
> “Can you imagine if I’d actually hit you?” Oh my  _god_ ,” she hid her face in her hands for a moment, laughing into her palms, and Bog smiled wide,
> 
> “Aye, well, I’d have deserved it,” he chuckled. She looked back up at him, then away again,
> 
> “I’m just…” she trailed off, and Bog was fairly sure that Marianne was not  _just_  anything. She did, however, look disarmingly insecure,  “I’m not used to this, to being asked like I have a choice. With Roland it was always, ‘we’re goin’ out tonight, buttercup, so get yerself all prettified’,” she mocked Roland’s southern drawl, and Bog didn’t even try to hide his disgust. She laughed at his disdainful expression, “I know, he’s so terrible. I can’t believe I ever fell for his crap,” she had learned a long time ago to laugh at herself, even when it hurt. Familiar embarrassment for her naivety flooded through her, but she didn’t look away, “I know better now,” she smiled, an actual, genuine smile, and it was infectious. Bog grinned wide in response,
> 
> “That’s what counts,” he agreed, then added, “And about having dinner…if you say no, it willnae change anything. You’re still welcome to stay with us, if need be. We’ll look after ye, no strings attached,” he assured her, and her look of elated gratitude had his heart hammering against his ribs. Even if she said no, the wound to his pride would be worth seeing her smile like that. She shook her head and laughed, bell-like and musical, and Bog didn’t think he’d ever heard anything more beautiful,
> 
> “What is it?” he inquired softly. She studied him for a few seconds, before giving him an incredulous smile and turning back to the road,
> 
> “Sorry that’s just…this wasn’t what I expected, but…wow, Soibhan was right,” she said softly, smiling amusedly again. Bog’s brow furrowed,
> 
> “Right about what?” Marianne bit back a grin,
> 
> “She told me what a gentleman you are, and assured me you wouldn’t prey on my virtue,” she answered bluntly. Bog choked on the breath he was taking as she spoke and felt a hot blush sweep from his neck to his ears. His friends might actually be trying to kill him. He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, then swept it back through his hair, stifling an embarrassed laugh of his own,
> 
> “Does that mean you thought I might try and have my way with you?” he tried to make light of it, but the words settled heavily on his chest as he realized that that must have been exactly what she thought. He couldn’t really blame her, they were strangers after all, but it stung all the same. She ran a trembling hand through her short, chestnut hair, his choice of words leaving her flushed,
> 
> “I'm sorry. I know you wouldn’t, but…I didn’t know what to expect. I never thought I’d ever even meet you, let alone, well,  _this_ ,” she gesticulated vaguely, a small smile playing on her lips, “I mean, are you sure? Really?  _Me_?” She asked as though the thought were completely ludicrous. Bog blinked back, confused,
> 
> “Is that so surprising?”
> 
> “I mean,  _yeah_ ,”
> 
> “Why?”
> 
> “Because I’m just…” she gestured to herself, rolling her eyes, “…and you’re  _you_ , and you could have  _anyone_ , and I’m…just—“
> 
> “Stop,” Bog said suddenly, catching her hand in his own. Marianne’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes wide, “You keep using that word, ‘just’; it doesnae suit you,” he explained softly her gaze fell from his eyes to their hands, and he realized belatedly that he’d laced his fingers through hers. He closed his eyes and exhaled steadily. She was right, she’d had him up on a pedestal for so long, never really knowing anything about him. Meeting someone like that in person was jarring, and he knew it, and he was determined to show her that he was every inch the gentleman Siobhan had painted him as. He carefully let go of her hand, making sure she had her personal space to herself, “Marianne, I amnae sure how to say this so that you’ll believe me, but yes, I would be very, very happy if you’d agree to have dinner with me. No implications, just food, and if you say no, then nothing changes, as promised,” he gave her a warm, reassuring smile, then moved to unclip his seatbelt, “You donnae need to answer now, we can talk about it in the mornin’, if ye like,” he reached for the handle, but stopped when she felt her warm hand on his arm,
> 
> “Wait!” her voice was startlingly loud in the confines of her small car, and he whipped his head around, afraid for a split second that something might be wrong,
> 
> “What?” he searched her eyes, and it took his brain a second to process that she was  _beaming_  at him excitedly,
> 
> “Yes,” she said simply. He blinked back, cracking a smile,
> 
> "Yes?"
> 
> “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you. I would really, really love to do that,” she replied earnestly.
> 
> “Are you sure?”
> 
> “Absolutely,” she confirmed, Bog’s heart was beating double-time as he smiled wide,
> 
> “Awright then, it’s a date,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, I'm sorry I'm a little late in uploading this. After re-reading it, I decided I wasn't happy with it and basically overhauled the whole thing, I hope it flows well, and that the situation seems at least slightly realistic. Please let me know what you think, your feedback is the air I breathe. <3

**Author's Note:**

> I know. I KNOW. I already have a Bog-is-a-bagpiper fic that I've been ignoring for like a year, and I owe you guys a wedding, but this story just kind of happened. I went to see a live show, and I was instantly inspired, so here you go! There's about four chapters worth written already, so updates will be regular, I promise! Thanks for sticking with me!


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